Page 83 of More or Less a Countess
Nick woke with a start, a sheen of sweat covering his body, thrusting his throbbing cock against the sheets. It took a moment for him to realize Violet wasn’t in his bed, but once he determined he was alone, a defeated moan broke from his lips and he buried his head in his pillow. Another dream, one that dissolved, as they always did, into a lonely, disappointing reality.
Nick rolled onto his back and threw his arm over his damp brow.
He still hadn’t taken her. She was his wife, damn it, and he wanted her desperately. He’d crept into her room again last night, as determined to take her as he was every night, but the moment he laid his hands on that pale, smooth skin, doubts assailed him. Was she thinking of Lord Derrick, and wishing it washishands caressing her instead of Nick’s? Was she imagining it washimin her bed?
He’d be trapped in England for eternity if he didn’t get an heir on his wife, but in a twist of fate so ironic he might have laughed if he weren’t so bloody miserable, London’s most selfish rake was incapable of making love to his own wife as long as he believed she cared for another man. But he also couldn’t keep his hands off her, so every night he’d creep into her bedchamber to touch her. He’d bring her to a gasping, panting release with his hands, his fingers, his mouth, and then he’d pull her nightdress back over her thighs, draw the covers over her, and retire to his own bedchamber with an aching cock, a curse on his lips, and a head and heart full of doubts and recriminations.
He couldn’t keep on like this. He was going mad—
“My lord?” A soft, tentative voice intruded on his thoughts, followed by a light knock on his bedchamber door. His first confused thought was it was Gibbs, and he was one breath away from giving voice to a fearsome bellow, but he managed to bite back his furious demand to be let alone before it left his lips.
Gibbs’s voice didn’t have that soft, teasing note, and the knock was coming from the door that connected his bedchamber to Violet’s, not the hallway door. Despite his relentless bad temper, it seemed his lovely bride was anxious to spend time with him, because she’d made quite a habit of venturing into his private bedchamber while he was still abed.
There seemed to be no end to her enthusiasm for improving Ashdown Park, and she pursued those improvements with an unflagging optimism he would have put down to drunkenness if he’d witnessed it in anyone other than Violet.
Yesterday she’d demanded a lesson on the paintings in the portrait gallery, then she’d dragged him up to the attics to see what other paintings were stored there that they might have the servants bring down for hanging. The day before that it had been a stroll through the formal gardens—was he fond of roses, or did he prefer wildflowers?—a wander through the stables—wouldn’t he tell her each of the horses’ names?—a visit to the library—not surprisingly, Violet had a great many ideas about how to improve the library—and then a carriage ride past the neighboring estate and a visit to town to view the rectory.
Lady Dare was nothing if not determined. Cheerful, too, resolutely so, and unendingly pleasant and patient. She met every one of his sour comments with a good-humored shrug, every bout of ill temper with an angelic smile, despite the fact he’d complained and pouted his way through each of these outings like a petulant child. It was difficult to oppose someone who was so unfailingly obliging, and at some point he’d given up resisting her. And then, despite his every effort to keep it from happening, his greatest fear had been realized.
He’d begun to enjoy the outings.
To enjoyher, much as he had when they’d spent those weeks touring burial grounds and gibbets in London. Just as he had then, he began to see Ashdown Park through Violet’s eyes. The delight he took in her—it was both beautiful and exquisitely painful at once, because as much as he needed her, as much as her presence was becoming as necessary as air to him, he wasn’t at all certainhewas necessary toher.
It made him surly, distant, but then the night would come, and he’d creep into her room and touch her, drown in the sensation of her hot, slick folds against his fingers, his mouth, and then he’d creep away again like a thief, a coward too afraid to make love to his wife.
“My lord?” There was another soft knock.
Nick emerged from the coverlet and propped himself against his pillows, fighting the temptation to toss his blankets aside so she could see how hard he was—so she understood what she did to him. After all, such an impatient lady should be made aware of the perils of invading her husband’s bedchamber so early, when a man’s body was primed for his wife’s affection.
Of course,hisbody was always primed for her, always hungry…
If he threw the covers off and felt her gaze on him when he was so stiff and hard for her, perhaps his desires would override his foolish misgivings, and—
“My lord?” The door creaked open a crack. “Are you awake?”
Awake, aroused, erect—whatever she wished to call it, he was all of them. “Yes. Come in.”
“Good morning, my lord.” Violet entered the room with brisk efficiency, and went at once to the window to pull aside the drapes.
“Damn it.” Nick jerked his hand up to shade his eyes from the offensive sunlight pouring through his window. In that respect he was very much like every other fashionable rake in London. He despised daybreak, and the earlier it arrived, the more detestable it was. The last thing a rake wanted to see first thing in the morning was the bloody sunrise.
“What do you think you’re doing, Lady Dare? For God’s sake, close those bloody drapes.”
She didn’t move or reply, and her silence continued to drag on until Nick’s eyes at last adjusted to the light, and he moved his arm away from his face. “Did you hear me, my lady? I didn’t allow you into my bedchamber so you could assault me—”
His words dissolved on a quick, hard breath.
She was staring at him, her hungry gaze moving over every inch of his bare chest. “I, ah…” Her cheeks flushed as she met his gaze. “I wanted…”
Nick nearly groaned aloud when her pink tongue darted out to wet her lower lip. She tried to look away, her frantic gaze darting from the washstand to the fireplace to the window, but her eyes were drawn back to him again and again, as if the sight of his bare flesh mesmerized her.
Nick knew Violet wanted him. He’d known it since the first moment he touched her. Her body craved his, just as any young, healthy body craved the touch of another. He’d felt her desire in the way she writhed beneath him, in every needy moan that left her lips, but he’d never beforeseenit—he’d never watched her lips part, her eyes darken, or the fevered flush bloom on her cheeks when she looked at him.
Nick’s cock swelled to painful dimensions, and his hips shifted restlessly against the coverlet. He swallowed, but when he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Now that you’ve woken me, what do you intend to do with me, Lady Dare?”
If she crossed his bedchamber right now, slid into his bed, and pressed her warm lips to his, his desire for her might well override his doubts about her affections. A part of him wanted that—wanted her to make the decision for both of them.
Yet even as his body tensed with anticipation, bitter regret made his chest tighten. It didn’t matter how often he told himself making love to her was only a means to an end, or that she didn’t need to love him for him to put a child in her belly—itdidmatter.
